You Want A Bizarre Rant? I'll Give You a Bizarre Rant

My daughter in an email today asked why I, as a Republican, only blogged about Democrats. In response I have asked my friend John McCain to write my blog for me today. Thanks John.

For your blog Hunter Party of One,
By John McCain
Friends, campaigns aren’t all baby-kissing and photo-ops in front of the flag. Sometimes, when your opponent implies that you are too senile to be president, the kid gloves have to come off. And sometimes, you take the kid gloves off, put some brass knuckles on, and ram your fist down your opponent’s fucking throat.I’m pissed off because this little twerp Obama, who was six fucking years old when I was getting my toenails ripped out by gook—er, the North Vietnamese—and can’t fucking bowl to save his life, not only said I was “losing my bearings,” he called my campaign’s response to it a “bizarre rant.”No, you know what’s bizarre? This campaign. I remember when I was just breaking into politics, we didn’t have this 24-hour-news-cycle bullshit, where every little thing you do is put under a microscope. I mean, I once punched Lyndon Johnson in the face for calling me a pigfucker and no one heard about it, but now I can’t take a shit without twenty bloggers speculating about its consistency.In the good old days, we’d have one debate, and maybe it’d be on television—not that it mattered much, since most people didn’t have television. They got their news from radios and newspapers, which we called “broadsheets” or “talking papers.” In today’s world, I have to go on some stupid fake news show and banter with some candy-ass liberal who probably did blow with his ugly comedian friends right before interviewing me. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s fake news.
Obama, if you’re reading this, you should thank your lucky stars my staff is watching me 24 hours a day (they keep saying something about a “loose cannon”). If I had my druthers, I wouldn’t be responding to your insults with a memo. I’d be wearing my old covert-op gear, gripping a knife between my teeth, and waiting for you in the toilet of your fancy-schmancy private jet. There are advantages to age and experience. Like knowing how to strip the skin off of someone’s chest without letting them pass out. Let’s see who loses whose bearings when you’re tied to the bottom of the Straight Talk Express with piano wire. Remember, “Barry,” I’ve killed men before, and I’m willing to do so again.
Oh, I’ve got to run. It was Mothers’ Day a couple of Sundays ago and I missed it. Got to go see her now, she is 96 you know. Mom likes to talk about how I was born in a bar, surrounded by bottles of scotch and drunks who showed up to witness the miracle of birth, which was a big draw back in the days of vaudeville. Coming, Mother!